


Pride of Ownership

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Branding, F/M, Femdom, Flashbacks, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Master/Slave, Mild Sexual Content, Redemption, S&M, Sexual Tension, The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who), Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: Each of the Doctor's regenerations must bear a mark of ownership.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/Missy (Doctor Who), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Twelfth Doctor/Missy, Twelfth Doctor/The Master (Gomez)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Pride of Ownership

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a stand-alone piece, but something of a sequel to [Oh Master You're So Fine!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384704?view_adult=true)

“Do you remember the last time we performed our little ritual, Doctor?”

The Master stands behind a carved oak desk. Elegant leather restraints, rolls of bandages, a bottle of sterile solution, and what looks like a long, slender lipstick tube are spread out before her, waiting. The Doctor sits in a high-backed chair opposite, naked from the waist up. Its lush brocade upholstery provides a delicious torment for the fresh welts on his back. 

They’re in the Master’s study - a dark, sensuous room within the TARDIS featuring patterned wallpaper and rich wood panelling. An assortment of intricate chaises and chairs in deep crimson enhance the Victorian flair. There’s a crackling fire in the hearth, framed by a mosaic of ceramic tiles and a towering mantle of dark chestnut. The dim glow of the brass chandelier completes the ambiance. Everything crafted to the Master’s tastes. 

“I’ve never forgotten,” the Doctor replies quietly. “How could I, when you always make it so... _memorable_?”

He knows what ritual she’s referring to. From the moment he renewed his submission to her, he understood what would inevitably follow. But it’s never easy, never the same experience twice.

The Master _tsks_ at his response. It seems her earlier efforts with a single-tail failed to cure the Doctor of his impertinence. He really should be more grateful for the attention. 

“Oh, I’m _sorry_!” she exclaims. “Did I just spend all that time, all that energy, working over your backside to try and teach _myself_ manners? How very selfish of me!” She’s once again wearing her plum dress, having changed out of the fitted suit she prefers for their sessions. Her hair is up, not a strand out of place.

The Doctor has the courtesy to look somewhat chastened as the Master pours herself a scotch and pulls up a chair next to him. She swirls the amber liquid around in the tumbler and takes a thoughtful sip.

“I quite enjoyed _us_ last time,” she reminisces. “Personally, I don’t miss the dangly bits between my legs, but _you_? Oh, you were a beautiful picture then! So full of arrogance and despair.” The Master’s eyes blaze as she recalls it. “And those strong, young bodies? I felt like I had lightning in my veins. The two of us, my dear...we were on _fire_.” She puts down the glass, leans closer and looks straight into the Doctor’s eyes. He doesn’t shy away from her gaze.

“Let’s relive it together, shall we?” The Master whispers. She clasps his face in both hands and touches her forehead to his. 

The Doctor takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as the present swirls away. He’s transported to a familiar room that’s so alike, yet so different - dark with a smoldering fire, but with brown leather replacing colorful brocade, oversized couches supplanting delicate chaises. The Valiant. He’s back in the younger body that had once made him so vain, stripped naked, on his knees. The Master, also younger, stands over him in a crisp black suit. 

“You have a nasty habit of forgetting you’re _mine_ , Doctor.” 

The voice sends an instinctive shiver down his spine. He dares to glance up and into the face of the other Time Lord, looking exactly as he did during that tortured year that never was. The Master leans down and tauntingly brushes his lips against the Doctor’s ear.

“But I’m going to correct that,” he purrs, with a touch of menace. “Now get up and come with me.”

The Doctor stands and follows the Master to a padded massage chair in front of the fire. He has a suspicion of what it might be for, as he positions himself at the Master’s wordless command. It’s part of their childhood pact - each of the Doctor’s regenerations must bear a mark of ownership. And this body is long overdue.

The Doctor places his face in the circular headrest, leaving his backside exposed. He can’t see the Master, but hears movement near the far wall. It’s the sound of a drawer sliding open, then the clink of metal - handcuffs, he’s sure of it. The Master returns to the Doctor’s side, the clinking chains matching the rhythm of his footsteps. The ritual has begun. 

“I’m going to brand you now, Doctor,” he declares, running his fingers delicately along his fellow Time Lord’s back. “But first, I want to hear it from you. Tell me who _owns_ you.”

“You do, Master.” The Doctor’s voice is a quivering whisper. But his words are sincere. His senses heighten in nervous anticipation; he has no idea where, or how, the brand will be applied. The Master never tells him - all part of his need to be fully in control.

“And will you accept the proof of my ownership?”

“Yes, Master.”

There’s one more question the Master needs to ask. It’s always been a part of their little dance. A part he grants the Doctor a say in. “Restraints, or no restraints, my Theta?” 

The Doctor has grown slightly nauseous but tries desperately to swallow his nerves. It’s been a long time since they’ve done this - even though his instinct told him it was imminent, there’s nothing he can do to ever truly prepare. He fears he won’t be able to keep still on his own. And when it comes to the Master, it’s best to be honest when allowed the rare opportunity to make a choice.

“Restraints,” he chokes dryly. “ _Please_ , Master.”

The Master gives a sarcastic snort of acknowledgment. “Probably for the best,” he agrees. “This is, I’m afraid, going to hurt.”

The Doctor is trembling visibly as the Master encircles first one wrist then the other in cuffs, securing each set to the bars of the chair. He then retrieves an additional restraint device to keep the Doctor’s ankles locked together, no slack in between. He feels the Doctor quiver violently as he snaps it on and secures the mechanisms tightly into place. 

“There, there,” he taunts, combing his fingers through the Doctor’s damp, tousled hair. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like this has ever _killed_ you before.”

“No, Master,” the Doctor concedes softly. Although he can’t help but wonder if it might, one day.

The Master steps away and returns to the mahogany chest of drawers near the fireplace. He pulls the top one open to reveal a row of traditional branding irons, each of a different size and shape. Three feature circles of varying diameter, another has been cut to make straight lines, and one to create dots - combined, they’ll form a custom Gallifreyan design that signifies his personal ownership of the Doctor. The brand will require several strikes to complete. The Master wasn’t lying when he said it was going to hurt. 

He removes the irons from the drawer and thoughtfully arranges them on a long table halfway between the blazing fire and the Doctor’s chair. From another drawer emerge the bandages and disinfectant necessary for proper aftercare. He’s not an amateur, after all.

The equipment is positioned behind the Doctor, well outside his field of vision. He won’t see it coming - which is deeply gratifying to the Master’s more sadistic nature. He never tells the Doctor his chosen method in advance. It’s so delicious to plan in the days beforehand, then watch the other Time Lord’s primal reaction during the big reveal. He can’t help but chuckle to himself in these last private moments before the culmination of their ritual. Finally, he picks up the first iron, the one with the largest circle, and places the tip directly into the hot coals.

The Doctor’s been trying to steady his ragged breathing while listening for the sounds of the Master’s movements. A sudden crackling and several _pops_ from the fire spark heightened terror within his psyche. Each second feels like an eternity. And then, as if on cue, the Master’s soft footfalls advance from behind.

“Brace yourself, Doctor.”

The warning barely reaches the Doctor’s ears before blinding pain sears into his right flank, just above the curve of his arse. He thinks he hears his own scream as he's rendered momentarily senseless, all coherent thought banished as his body and mind struggle to process the trauma. The strike itself is quick, followed instantly by the smell of burnt flesh. Nausea returns and he battles the rising bile in his throat, barely managing not to vomit on the Master’s Turkish rug.

“Good boy.” The Master’s disembodied voice registers over the pounding of blood in his ears. “But I’m sorry to say that we have several more to go, my dear.”

What happens after that is a blur of agony as the Master heats each iron in turn. The glowing brands sizzle against the Doctor’s pale skin at regular intervals, over and over until he loses count. Starbursts flash before him as his vision drifts in and out of focus. The Doctor hears words being spoken - Of encouragement? Compassion? Instruction? Contempt? - nothing his brain can process in its current state. The blood roars through his veins as though his hearts might just stop, and all the Doctor knows is that he has to _breathe_ , keep breathing, don’t pass out, don’t sick up…

Finally, it’s done.

A semblance of coherent thought returns as the Master begins to wash and bandage the wounds. Although the Doctor won’t be able to appreciate the work for quite some time, the Master is pleased at how it’s all turned out. He had taken his time to ensure there would be no mistakes. What good is careful preparation if you’re careless in the execution?

“You’re mine, Doctor,” he whispers, undoing the restraints and raising a glass of water to the other Time Lord’s parched lips. “And you always will be.”

That’s where the memory ends.

The room swirls into blackness, into the past, as the latest regeneration of the Master pulls away and gently severs the telepathic bond. The Doctor is trembling, blinking rapidly with unfocused eyes. The experience has clearly brought forth emotions she hadn’t anticipated. She puts on a reassuring smile as he slouches down in the chair and the shaking subsides.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, stroking his arm in a calming rhythm. “ _You’re_ okay.”

They sit in silence for several minutes in the wake of the flashback. The Master found it invigorating - and rather good foreplay. But she’s also changed in many ways since then, and realizes how deeply troubling their past may have been for the Doctor. She picks up her half-full glass of scotch and considers what to say to him.

“I was brutal with you that entire year,” she concedes. “And after, when my resurrection went wrong.” She sips the drink, savouring the burn as it goes down. “Why did you endure it? Not that I gave you much choice, mind.”

The Doctor is paler than usual. “Because I _needed_ it,” he sighs. Just like he needs it now. “And I was willing to forgive you, no matter how you treated me, no matter what horrors I watched you commit.”

“But _why_?” she presses. “What need was so powerful that you allowed me to hurt you, over and over again?”

“I was so alone,” the Doctor admits, voice breaking slightly. “And when I found out _you_ survived the War…” 

“You would have stayed no matter what.” The Master finishes quietly. Because they’ve always needed each other, like an addiction, and her younger self had used the Doctor’s need as a way to control and degrade him while unleashing fury upon the world.

A sudden darkness crosses the Doctor’s face and his eyes grow cold. “You know I deserved it, too,” he adds. “After what I did to Gallifrey - to our people - I deserved to be hurt.”

“By me?” 

“Yes,” the Doctor responds bluntly. “I had to be punished - at _your_ hands.”

The Master stands and walks to the sideboard, refilling her own glass and pouring another for the Doctor. She sits back down and studies his guarded expression. “Are things better, now that I’ve...changed?”

The Doctor takes a tentative sip. He knows his place, now as well as he did back then; he owes the Master both honesty and reverence in word and in deed. And he must admit she’s come a long way since he spared her life. But he would’ve spared it regardless, even if he had known with certainty she wouldn’t keep her word. He would forgive the Master anything, even now. And the Doctor has no doubt she’s always known it, too.

“You’ve been true to your promise,” he acknowledges. “We _are_ in a much better place now than we’ve been in a very, very long time. But we both have to keep putting the effort in.”

The Master laughs softly in relief. “We’ve got all the time in the universe,” she reminds him, raising her glass in a toast. The Doctor responds in kind and they each take a long swig, eyes locked all the while.

“So, Doctor,” the Master continues, “will you once _again_ accept the proof of my ownership?”

At that long-awaited question, the Doctor promptly downs the remainder of his scotch. “Always, Master,” he grins.

“Then come with me.” 

Taking his hand, she guides him to a plush fainting couch near the fire. The Master pulls the Doctor down beside her and kisses him roughly, forcing his mouth open to savour the earthy smokiness on his tongue. He yields willingly as she pushes him onto his back and grabs him by the throat, running her free hand across his naked chest and down to his waist, fleetingly brushing his crotch with her fingertips. He gasps at the touch, so electric even over the fabric of his trousers. But that’s not what they’re here for - not tonight.

“Stay here,” the Master murmurs, breaking the kiss before either of them becomes too distracted. 

The Doctor doesn’t move as the Master returns to her desk and picks up the restraints and the object resembling a lipstick tube. She straddles the reclining Doctor, bunching up her skirts on the narrow chaise, and grins down at him. 

“So what’s it to be?” she teases. “Restrained or unrestrained, Theta?”

“Unrestrained,” he replies without hesitation. “Thank you, Master.”

“Got a wee bit of liquid courage, eh?” she chuckles, tossing the restraints to the floor. “All right, my dear. Just don’t go all squirmy on me, now.”

The Master removes the cap of the tube, revealing a pointed wire tip. With the flick of a switch, the Doctor watches as the wires crackle to life and begin to glow bright orange, like a torch in the dim room. The image of her old laser screwdriver, with its deadly beam, flashes briefly across his mind's eye. He feels the familiar sense of terror swell up within him, that bit of queasiness, but knows he is safe, that he is submitting to this of his own free will.

“It’s a cautery pen,” the Master tells him. “I built this one myself, actually. It’s so much easier to create detail using a device like this.” She takes a deep breath, places her left hand firmly on the Doctor’s chest, and steadies the pen in her right. “Okay. Here we go…”

The Doctor is rendered breathless as the Master presses the tip into the skin above his left heart, beginning to trace a large circle. The unavoidable smell of burnt flesh wafts up and reaches his nostrils. He clenches his fists to avoid screaming while she pushes on his abdomen to hold him in place - maybe opting out of the restraints was a mistake. He braces himself as best he can, while she moves the pen in small, meticulous strokes along the tender skin. He finally manages to get his breathing under control, which helps with the usual nausea, and the Master murmurs words of encouragement as she works. Before long, the familiar design begins to emerge, and after several minutes, it’s all over.

“Would you like to see it, Doctor?” she asks gently.

The Doctor glances down at his chest, taking in the sight of a scorched mark about four inches in diameter, consisting of intricate overlapping circles and lines in their Gallifreyan language. To humans, it would appear to be nothing more than a curious symbol. But if seen by a Time Lord, the message would be quite clear. He belongs to the Master - irrevocably, in this regeneration and in all others.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes quietly. The searing pain has been replaced by a dull, more bearable ache, but the Doctor still finds himself a bit dizzy. Nonetheless, there’s a euphoria in the ritual that transcends anything he’s experienced in all his centuries of life.

The Master fetches the sterile solution and bandages, and begins to tend to the wound. It will need to be kept tightly covered for weeks, to prevent the skin from healing and ensure a prominent, permanent brand. 

“You’ll sleep in my bed tonight,” she declares. “I need to make sure you’re properly looked after.” 

It’s a rare command. Even now, they occupy separate bedrooms in the TARDIS, sharing a bed only when it suits the Master’s fancy. Often, invitations to spend the night in her room involve the Doctor sleeping on the floor, at the foot of the bed rather than in it. So he doesn’t complain when she insists on taking care of him. After all this, he finds he needs to be close to her right now.

The Master is exhausted but content. Their shared journey down memory lane - as vivid as if it were unfolding in real time - provided some overdue perspective. She’d never truly come to terms with just how callous her prior self had been when it came to the Doctor’s needs. He’s always just wanted to help, teach her to be better, no matter the regeneration. It was _her_ motives that had become corrupted in the centuries since they made their childhood pact. She's still got work to do to overcome those faults. But she’ll make sure the Doctor is never neglected again. Because no one can claim that the Master doesn’t have pride of ownership.


End file.
